


they be salty like sodium

by orphan_account



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Alternate Universe - Crack, Crack Treated Seriously, F/F, but she doesn't!, god they are idiots, homoerotic bar fight, no beta we die like Glenn, shamir thinks of socking catherine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-09
Updated: 2020-06-09
Packaged: 2021-03-04 06:27:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24629266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Shamir and Catherine engage in a heated bar fight about the Sox vs. Yankees game.
Relationships: Catherine/Shamir Nevrand
Comments: 11
Kudos: 20





	they be salty like sodium

**Author's Note:**

  * For [compilationError](https://archiveofourown.org/users/compilationError/gifts).



Shamir’s been to many bars, of course. But the first thought that arises concerning this one in particular is: It’s fucking _weird._

There’s a man with viridescent hair that appears to be an accountant at the door. Which is strange in itself, but hardly noticeable compared to each wooden table that has a bible set neatly upon it. Each one is open to Proverbs 31:6, which says something along the lines of _Let beer be for those who are perishing, wine for those who are in anguish!_ The only normal thing about this entire establishment is the bartender, a woman who looks to be in her late twenties, and a sole TV which is idly airing a few standard commercials. The same shitty one she’s seen for the past few weeks comes on: Von Aegir’s Insurance Company. The sight of the man’s face is enough to send a grumbling Shamir climbing over the barstools in a single heartbeat.

“Rum with coke.” It’s the first thing Shamir’s said since she’s walked in the door, and the woman behind the counter turns to look at her.

She knows the bartender, of course. She goes by Catherine. Bronzed skin and blonde hair, tall and athletically built. She’s a wall of pure muscle, and inexplicably a _perfect_ candidate for this godawful sports bar. She had a voice that carried over others like rolling thunder, deafening to all but none. Shamir couldn’t tell whether she liked it or not.

Catherine was loud, and boisterous, and so wholly unlike Shamir that it was almost comedic. The agent couldn’t actually tell if she liked it or not. But then again, she enjoyed the change of pace. It was nice to be around an individual so carefree in their endeavours.

Shamir had met Catherine on a fluke occurrence. One of the waiters – what had his name been again? Sylvan? Sylvain? – had approached with the intent of a night spent under covers. She hadn’t remembered anymore exactly what his opening line had been. Something along the lines of _If you were a burger at McDonald's, you'd be named the McGorgeous!_ Whatever the case was when it came to the gingered flirt, a galled Catherine had emerged from behind, as if Athena herself adorned in bronzed armour. Despite being several inches shorter than the man, she’d seemed to take up the entire bar itself, as if she _knew_ how dangerous she could be if provoked. Sylvain had seemed to know it too, or at least sense it, because it hadn’t been long before a quick warning of being decked and a smack to the backside of his head had sent him scurrying off like a kicked dog.

They’d bonded, after that. Despite the odds. But Shamir had considered herself in the woman’s debt, and as much as she might have grown exasperated at the constant moving of Cathmir’s colossal mouth, she’d actually found herself becoming _fond_ of the bartender’s ways, however chaotic they might’ve seemed.

“Shamir!” The other woman says then, a broad grin sweeping across her face.

“Catherine.” There’s a slight quirk to Shamir’s lips, but other than that, she says nothing else.

“Hold on, I’ll get you and your drink settled. How have you been?”

There’s a shrug then that comes from the agent, lifting half-heartedly before they fall once again and settle into place. “Not much. Got tasked with another case at work.” Shamir frowns, grabbing the glass now placed in front of her and takes a hearty swig. That’s what she needed. The heat of the rum is welcomed against her throat, sliding against sinew muscle finding home in the depths of her stomach.

It’s only the briefest of seconds, but her eyes catch Catherine staring. There’s an odd tilt to her head, a quirked brow and a look of mild impressiveness. It’s almost enough for Shamir to reach out for the rest of her drink and down it, then and there. For some reason, any look like _that_ that came from Catherine seemed like more than a challenge. Shamir couldn’t tell why it invigorated her so much. It was unnerving.

She’s trying to dispel the unwanted thoughts though, so instead she drums fined fingernails against the wooden bar and plants a practiced tilt of her lips. “Well? You going to tell me what you’ve been up to?” But this is Catherine, and Catherine is easy to pinpoint, despite how much chagrin that might cause the other woman to hear. In some ways, she reminded Shamir of a retriever. Not that it was necessarily a bad thing.

There’s a laugh then, short but hearty as always. “Spending my nights here. Making sure everything sticks to the order they’re meant to be in.” There’s a wink tossed carelessly, and then Catherine looks in the direction of the small, CRT television propped on the wooden bar. “The sports games help me keep going. Give me something to watch. A bit of a competitive streak in me, yeah?”

That’s the first time Shamir fully acknowledges the television cast off beside them. On its shoddy display there’s an announcer going on in a tin voice about the details of the game. Baseball, by the looks of it, and then Shamir realizes: “The Sox versus the Yankees?”

Shamir, ideally, did not like to call herself a sports fan. She wasn’t, not really, but the bitter rivalry so clearly defined between Boston and New York City was too hard to ignore, even on a good day. And it’s why she lets a frown take over her sharp features then, brows drawing together to form a crease upon her forehead.

“Yeah! You like either of them?” Catherine asks, because Shamir should’ve known anything having to do with sports would instantly pique the woman’s interest. Not that she particularly minded.

“Not much of a sports person. But I call bullshit on the Sox. There’s a clear upper hand that the Yankees have over them.”

Had she said something wrong? Because Catherine is looking at her, awfully silent, and Shamir realizes she doesn’t exactly like it. She’s used to the constant chatter of the other woman, and that look she’s now fixing Shamir with feels as if finely tuned daggers have been pointed to her eye sockets.

“What?” She snaps then, frowning and staring back with a rivalling vehemence.

“Take that back. About the Sox. Clearly you don’t know your shit.”

There’s a pause that stills even the air around them. It reminds Shamir of those shitty western movies, right before the sheriff faced off in a gunning duel with the infamous outback crook. “No. You have to expect every New Yorker hates them. The Sox only ever have a quarter of a chance at even _getting_ to the playoffs.”

Shamir isn’t really sure how it happens, when she finally looks back on it at a later date. It’d become something they’d both laugh at and dismiss, despite the subtle rivalry that lingered even after they’d established a relationship. During a future wedding they’d mention something along the lines of a mutual decision to respect both rivalling teams. But here, now, in the present, Catherine is hoisting herself over the bar with a practiced ease that would have had Shamir dry-mouthed if she was anyone else.

A second later there’s fingers manhandling biceps, and then Shamir is forcefully pinning a heavyweight Catherine to the bar beneath them. A forearm rises up, locks her head in and pins Catherine firmly. “Cool it. You’re overreacting.”

Catherine’s still struggling underneath her weight though, and there’s the faint gleam of sweat beading at her brow, like dewdrops on morning grass. The temperature inside the bar feels like it’s spiked, and Shamir is oblivious now to the accountant in the corner of the establishment, staring through small spectacles. “I said take it back then. Don’t talk shit about the Sox. Bostonians know their shit better than New Yorkers do.”

The retort only makes Shamir’s frown deepen, and she hates this, hates it because Catherine is so _close_ that her breath caresses the skin of her porcelain cheek and the smell of rum upon her own mingles between them. “I don’t like sports at the best of times. But I know a godawful team when I see one.” And that must have been the right thing to say, because Catherine is struggling even more vehemently underneath her, and Shamir suddenly feels a round of smugness at being able to rile her with such ease.

And then there’s a knee coming up, trying to jam into her thigh, but all that it manages to do is press firmly against leggings and instinctively Shamir is raising a fist to sock Catherine. She can’t actually tell if it’s a welcome sensation, can’t tell past the sudden jolt that her body gives at the surprise of the accidental maneuver and the tingling of nerves where the limb has traversed. Catherine seems just as equally dishevelled, but her reaction timing is still quick and she blocks the incoming slug of a fist by wrapping sturdy fingers around it. Cherry wine dusts Catherine’s cheeks, flushed and so wholly oblivious that Shamir feels herself heat up. A scattering of crimson comes down to dance upon her ears and neck, dipping down past the collar of her shirt.

She chalks it up as a response to the intensity of the fight.

“And you told me to cool it. Look at you. Punch me and that’s it.”

Catherine’s right. She doesn’t need to be charged with aggravated battery. Shamir relaxes a little, but she’s still panting heavily, and she can smell – what is that? Sandalwood? – the bodywash the other woman must have used prior to arriving at her workplace. It’s too close, seems too intimate for a fucking _fight,_ and immediately Shamir is pushing away with a sharp growl and the gritting of canines. “Don’t jump me then.”

The bartender shoots up then, dusts off her own clothing and retains a haughty glare in Shamir’s direction. But Catherine is unkempt and disarranged, and it’s so painfully obvious by the touch of life brought to her cheeks now and the way her ponytail seems to have become roughly half-undone. No thanks to Shamir. “Sorry. Sometimes you need to defend your homies, you know?”

Shamir must be in a fucking dream. There’s no way Catherine said that. “You’re kidding. _Homies?_ Who the hell are you? Did the waiter teach you that word?” She’s talking about the dickhead of course, the one who seems to have been previously working here but now has not dared to even show his face in the same _room_ as Shamir. If he even has a shift today.

“Yeah! He said it would make me more in touch with the youth.”

“You’re a fucking mess.” But then again, Shamir is too, and the sharp retort falls on deaf ears.

Catherine only cracks a broad grin in response, and it reminds Shamir of the dawning of a new day.

**Author's Note:**

> crack cathmir fic for sunny based on her boston au which is. honestly the best fucking thing ever


End file.
